


Letters to Lynn

by areneecz



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gore, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Loss, Loss of Control, Loss of Faith, Loss of Innocence, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, One Shot, Random & Short, Sad, Sad Ending, Short, Short One Shot, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areneecz/pseuds/areneecz
Summary: Blake Langermann writes a letter, or two, or three.





	Letters to Lynn

Thumbing through papers the taller man slouched, frame hovering over the small wooden table as he swayed nervously. Time passed slowly, irritatingly slowly. Standing back he arched, pushing his fingers over the array of protruding muscles lining his back, lips pulling and parting as he let a collection of heavy breaths pass. The air above hung heavily, rich with the scent of rot and decay, the old musk of crumbling pages and dissolving books. The must of old blood, the stink of invisible crimson, a stench so strong and heavy that it ached, chaffed like grinding bones, chattering and clashing. Old. Old fields filled with rows of houses, wooden mausoleums of madness, a society left behind, pushed away, far back in time, in the mind. Suddenly he paused, fingernails sharp as they indented the blank pages, digging through the darkness he located a tinder, a coal, effortlessly scratching he began, writing his testament to his wife, to his sanity, and to the town of Temple Gate.

**_Lynn,_ **

**_My legs ache, I've been running for as long as I can remember, my muscles have never burned quite like this before. I write in hopes that I'll reach you, that this single sheet will somehow find it's way to you. Possibly it will, or perhaps not, maybe it will sit in the darkness, lost to the town, to Knoth, to Temple Gate. I overheard them, the booming voices of the cultists, speaking of a women and her baby. If I had known, if I knew, I wouldn't have come, we wouldn't have come. I hope I find you, I hope it's in once piece_**.

Tossing the paper aside he continued, picking through the scattered sheets in hopes to locate another, another surface to continue his words, his madness. Inner thoughts seeped, demanding to be written, to be turned into reality, into something comprehendable. Pulling another piece free he knelt, knees pressing into the dirty, soft wooden panels below as he radiated, through his work, through the constant thought of reconnecting with Lynn.

**_Lynn,_ **

_**I thought I lost you, in the beginning, in the crash, I thought I lost myself to be particularly honest. The vehicle, the helicopter was trashed, broken and burning. In the jolting madness I had been unconscious, in the same madness you were taken, the pilot was killed, skinned, strung up. I used to joke about death, about the rot of the world, but not now, now it's more real than ever. The death, the bodies, the flies, the pools of blood, the spools of intestines. We are truly in hell**_.

Turning the papers over he stifled a sob, a cry. Bawled fists rubbed at his eyes, the chaff of dirt and dryness irritating his skin, the scratch of pebbles and particles. Pushing the sheets away he watched them flutter, through the air until finally resting against the floor below. Pushing on he scribbled, with or without paper, coal point firm against the wooden table below as he continued, his inner machinations demanding more out of the one which held it in, confined it.

**_Lynn,_ **

**_Do you remember Mount Massive, that pitiful excuse of an asylum? I remember. I remember the horror, the stories that came out of that place, the disappearance of the striving lone journalist, the I.T. techie lost to the madness. I remember the theories, the tales spun in relation to Temple Gate, how the technology they crafted played a major part in the small rural town's undoing. Was it true? What I see how is not normal, not your basic run-of-the-mill madness, it was crafted, created in a factory, it was made to be as horrid as it appears. I remember it._ **

His testament flowed, unable to be stopped, silenced. Flowing sentences, paragraphs. Inky black words flooded the table top as he sought out yet another surface to help him continue. Dusting the coal across his wrist he wrote, sleeve pushed upwards, out of the way. He sketched, scribbled, the point of the coal crumbling away as his fingers absentmindedly shook in response to his actions.

_**Lynn,** _

_**I write in hopes that something will somehow reach you, that my words, my testament, means something in the end, that anything I do, or claim to do means something. Journalism is a useless career, I realise that now. I wish did more, made something of myself, did something simple, worked a normal job. I wish I gave us a chance, a family, I wish I did something other than this, other than Temple Gate and it's horrors. I'm sorry, I can't apologize enough for the pain and hurt I've caused, for my willingness into damnation. I'm**_ _**sorry about everything.** _

Angrily he curled, crushing the coal in his palm as powder poured, flooding his palm as he tipped his hand sideways, brushing the dust to the floor as he clenched his teeth. Realization struck him, an overwhelming pain struck him. Blood. Blood dotted across his wrist, thin lines. Slices, cuts in his skin from the razor sharpness of the coal, dirty wounds that throbbed, beat against his skin from the inside as even the slightest of contact, movement, caused shivers of pain to pound, to flood his pooling brown eyes. Ignoring the pain he dug his dirty fingernails in deeper, vertically slicing as he curled inward, in on himself, on the butchered concept of reality.


End file.
